


Advent is for Cheese

by StacPolly



Series: Advent is for Cheese [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, Pre-Slash, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-04
Updated: 2014-08-05
Packaged: 2018-02-11 18:05:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2077905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/StacPolly/pseuds/StacPolly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco really really likes cheese, and in searching for cheese he finds Harry. </p><p>Inspired by and based on Sara's Girl's masterpiece 'All Must Draw Near', because I wanted to know what Draco thought. A series of Advent snapshots in time from the end of the war to the beginning of 'All Must Draw Near'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cheese is the Word

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Saras_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saras_Girl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [All Must Draw Near](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1210501) by [Saras_Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saras_Girl/pseuds/Saras_Girl). 



> Sara's Girl is such a talented writer I feel embarrassed to offer this first attempt at writing in the present tense. Nods also to Sara's Girl's 'Turn', Dickens' 'Christmas Carol', the Muppet's Christmas Carol, Dorothy L Sayer's Lord Peter Wimsey series, and of course Harry, Draco, Hermione and co belong to JKR.
> 
> All comments and criticism gratefully received.

**Prologue**

For the traditional pure-blood wizard Advent is a time of judgement. Draco has been judged and, to his surprise, exonerated, thanks to Harry Potter. Draco has not, however, been redeemed.

Advent, from the Latin _Adventus_ , the coming: For years the codeword in pure-blood and Death Eater circles for the long awaited second coming of the Dark Lord. Draco prefers to think of Advent as the first day of cheese.

**1998 First Day of Advent**

Recent months have done much for his understanding of Mugglish literature and culture; rather less for his relations with the _Pater_ and _Mater_. Wandering along the Embankment, head bowed against the wind and drizzle, Draco wonders how might things be different if those three ghosts had come to him before he’d completely fucked up his life. He shivers, envisaging an ethereal Ghost of Christmas Past and happier times; of family cheese tastings, his mother cross-legged on the rug. Later, a bullied, cowed child, bullying and cowing others in his turn; unaware of the oily, putrid evil even then creeping, slipping, twisting its way into his family, home and life.

When he reaches the door of his bedsit, far too run-down to be considered shabby chic, the knocker looks for a moment like Crabbe - pugnacious with burning, accusing eyes. But it’s a Muggle door in a Muggle street in a Muggle district. It’s just a bloody door knocker. He slams the door shut. What would the Ghost of Christmas Present show him this year? That night he dreams of Potter, arm around the Weasley girl, of ‘Guess Who?’ by the fire, and the mocking laugh of Ron Weasley as they think of Draco, unloved, unhappy, alone.

**1999 First Day of Advent**

He stands by a grave in a Wizarding cemetery; no crypts and family memorials for the Malfoys now. Those days are gone, and good riddance, Draco thinks. As the snow falls on newly turned soil his cold-numbed brain creates a Dementor-like Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come.

He straightens. He still has time.

**2000 Christmas Eve**

With the Malfoy coffers stripped Draco knows he and his mother have been lucky to retain the small Black fortune, brought to the union but left untouched. There’s no one left to tell him what to do and few to help. He casts around for something he’s good at. No one’s going to buy potions from a Malfoy, especially one who never actually qualified, and, well, furniture repair probably isn’t an option he should be considering.

As he slips through Diagon Alley in search of cheese - a bittersweet memory now - his eye is caught by the crowd of Christmas shoppers outside Quality Quidditch Supplies.

**2001 Christmas Eve**

The cheeseboard will be bigger and better this year, but there’s still only Draco to eat it. His mother, now nearly as ethereal as the Ghost of Christmas Past itself, spends her time in the old Black property on the Cote d’Armour.

Importing racing brooms from the U.S. has turned out to be lucrative; and as the Americans seem to have little awareness of politics and upheaval beyond their shores, Draco’s name and looks have been met with a blessed apathy. So far he’s only selling on to Quidditch professionals, doubtful of how he’d be received by the Muggleborn owners of Diagon’s only broom shop.

Cuthbert’s Crumbling Cheeses sells a delicious looking but depressingly named ‘Cheeseboard for One’ and Draco is contemplating whether he can quite bring himself to ask for it, or whether he should just go for humiliatingly small slices of everything he fancies.

“Have you got any pasteurised cheeses?” comes a loud and well-remembered voice to his right and Draco suddenly has to hold himself very, very still.

Potter, for who else would it be, discusses rinds and summer milks with a surprising amount of knowledge for someone who was (according to the books anyway, which Draco, absolutely, does not read) brought up in a cupboard. Draco is unseen in the general furore that still seems to surround Potter wherever he goes, and his eyes flick to the man’s left hand. Potter certainly knows his cheese, and you only ask for pasteurised cheese if you have a very good reason. No ring. How modern; but if Potter’s trying to keep this one quiet he’s doing an abysmal job. He snorts loudly. Too loudly.

“Malfoy!” says Potter spitting out a mouthful of oatcake and a very runny Epoisse.

Draco can’t help himself, “Erm, I don’t think she can have that one.” Well done Draco, the first time you speak to the man in what, 3 years, and it’s epicurean advice. Not quite what he’d imagined, which he, absolutely, had not.

Potter grins, actually grins, “Hermione’ll kill me if I take this back. The smell would have her vomiting at fifty paces but I couldn’t resist.”

Oh. Granger. Oh. Not quite what he’d been expecting. He gathers his thoughts; difficult with Potter looking at him expectantly. “Congratulations,” he manages at last.

Potter looks bemused for a second and then laughs, “Oh no, not mine. Definitely not. Not likely. Ron. Very Early Days.” He says by way of explanation before biting off another piece.  
“Oh,” says Draco, and wonders. He nods stiffly, “Merry Christmas to you all.”

“Can I help you?” says an assistant.

“Just the Single Cheeseboard please.”

“Our ‘Cheeseboard for One’? Certainly.” says the assistant, far too loudly in Draco’s opinion, and the missing ‘Sir’ is all too eloquent.

As Potter leaves, an enormous parcel cradled in the arms of the obsequious assistant, he turns back to Draco, “Merry Christmas to you too.”  
Draco can only nod, and in the rush of assistants to open the door, he misses the quick, thoughtful glance sent his way as Potter is bowed through the threshold.


	2. Thestral Cheese is an Acquired Taste

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco does the logical thing.

**2002 1st Day of Advent**

Well, reflects Draco, what a surprising year. Who could have guessed that a chance meeting in this very cheese shop would lead to Draco supplying Quality Quidditch Supplies with American semi-pro racing brooms.

As Draco contemplates an under ripe Pont l’Eveque and wonders if it will be just right or too far gone by Christmas the shop door rings, and with an uncanny feeling that he knows just who has walked in, he turns to look right into Potter’s perpetually cheery face.

“Malfoy.” Potter nods with rather more bonhomie and rather less mouldy sock smell than last year.

“Potter. What do you think of this for Christmas?” He points at the hard little square with a gloved hand and Potter wrinkles his nose, “Might be alright. What else are you getting?”

Draco points wordlessly to the ‘Cheeseboard for One’, which now comes with the encouraging sign ‘Great for those lonely winter evenings’.

“Oh.” says Potter. Then, “Oh, well why don’t you come to mine on Christmas Eve?"

He’s tempted, very tempted, but, still. “I’m not a charity case, Potter,” he mutters.

Potter smiles. “I know, but I’ve got something I want to discuss with you anyway. Broomsticks,” he adds.

“Okay.” says Draco, softly.

“Bring your cheese.” says Potter as he turns to leave.

**2003 Christmas Eve**

“Why?” Draco sets his mulled wine back on the coffee table and turns to his companion.

“Harry thinks you’re Harriet to his Peter.”

Baffled, Draco raises an eyebrow.

“Dorothy L Sayers,” she says, brushing an errant strand of brown hair out of her eye. “Go and look it up.”

In the event, Draco doesn’t have to. A pile of four second hand novels, Muggle novels, arrives by owl that evening, tied up with a piece of tinsel. He can’t quite believe that Potter thinks he’s forcing Draco to be his friend out of gratitude. Honestly.

**2004 Christmas Eve**

It’s the Weasley Christmas Party, and Draco has 'of course’ been invited with Harry.

“So," begins Granger, Hermione now, conversationally. “You and Harry, moving in together?" She raises a speculative eyebrow.

“There are two bedrooms, you know,” he bites into Molly’s homemade bread stick. “These are really good.”

“Do you...”

“It makes sense really,” he breaks in.

“I’m sure it does,” she smiles.

Later, as he and Harry stagger home, their new and extremely heavy Le Creuset stew cauldron between them, he tallies up the number of joint presents they’ve received this year. Maybe they do have a problem.

**2005 St Nicholas Day**

This year they go to the cheese shop together. And that’s when it hits him.

“Thestral cheese?” mouths Harry, as their eyes meet in horror above the display. Draco shudders. Warm green eyes are twinkling into his as though they’ve always been friends, but in that moment he knows.

“Oh god.” A deep ache spreads somewhere between his ribs and belly button and he leans heavily on the counter.

Harry touches his arm, “What’s the matter?”

Draco strives for calm as he presses his palms into the table top, grounding himself. “Too much Christmas shopping I think,” he finally gets out, and Harry looks at him with concern, far more concern than he deserves.

“Let’s get you home, you’ve been sorting the broomstick delivery all day, what you need is a glass of red wine and a shoulder massage to get rid of all that tension.”

“Home,” repeats Draco. Yes, he thinks, that’s what it is.


	3. Auld Lang Syne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not a very merry Christmas for Draco.

**2006 Christmas Eve**

They both lunge for the totem at the same time, “Jungle Speed!” Draco’s hand is very clearly underneath but Harry’s evidently not going to let that stop him.

“Foul!” yells Ron, taking the opportunity to swat Draco over the head with a coaster.

“I’ll sock wrestle you, you wriggly bastard,” says Harry through a mouthful of Draco’s jumper, pulling at the thick woollen sock as Draco rolls beneath him. Draco retaliates and they both end up on the cold stone hearth, a glass of wine, red wine, oh hell, smashed beneath them as they lie there panting.

“White wine, Ron,” calls Hermione from the chair as Ron legs it for the kitchen - they all know how fussy Draco is about the carpet, and god only knows how Harry puts up with it.

 

Later, carpet recovered with the help of wine and Ron’s superior Weasley cleaning spells, Draco goes to change his top.

“Where’s my blue shirt?” calls Harry.

Draco pauses by his door, “I took it to the dry cleaners yesterday, why?”

Harry appears, bare chested, and Ron shrieks and covers Hermione’s eyes, “That was my last decent shirt.”

“Oh for Heaven’s sake,” sighs Draco. He roots through his wardrobe and tosses a shirt to Harry, now lounging in the doorway. “Have one of mine, or open that flat purple present under the tree.”

 

“I was wrong,” says Hermione softly, as she pulls on her hat. “You’re Peter to his Harriet, aren’t you?”

Draco is silent, then - finally - looks up to meet her eye. She wrinkles her nose, eyes sympathetic. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say anything,” he asks, a little too close to begging for comfort.

“I won’t. For now,” she amends, and he nods.

 

**2007 The night before Christmas**

It’s been a wonderful, nightmarish, confusing year and Draco is tired. Tired of wondering, questioning and jumping at every little brush of hands as Harry hands him a cup of tea, every time their eyes meet across the Cluedo board, every time Harry decides to walk from the shower to his room in nothing but a low slung towel. Best not to think about that one.

For the life of him he can’t work out whether his flatmate and business partner is even aware of the tension that seems to snap and sparkle between them. For every moment when Draco thinks ‘he must, he must’ see what’s happening, there’s another where Harry seems so clueless that Draco doesn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.

He hasn’t been able to get away from the shop until Christmas Eve itself, but this year he’s spending the holidays in St Malo with his mother.

  
**2008 Boxing Day**

“Bringing anyone special to Hogmanay Harry?" Draco can’t help asking, although a little voice inside is chanting ‘shut up, shut up’.

“Who?” he pokes Draco’s thigh with his toe. “It’s not as though I ever get to meet anyone. I’ve not been asked on a date for months.” He scratches his head. “Make that about 2 years.”

Draco picks up the intruding toe and moves it to the safety of the sofa. “You’re not a Victorian maiden, Potter, you could always ask, couldn’t you?” For once Draco’s tongue censor doesn’t appear to be working, probably thanks to the vintage port Harry gave him for Christmas.

Harry sighs, not unhappily. “I dunno. I just... don’t feel the need at the moment. I’ve got the shop, I’ve got my friends, I’ve got you. I’m content, I suppose.”  
There’s a pause as Harry tucks his legs up underneath him, “You?”

Draco gives him a scathing look. Yep, he really is that oblivious. And it’s probably for the best.  
“Tea?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auld Lang Syne is a Rabbie Burn's poem/song traditionally sung at Hogmanay and the end of ceilidhs. It is a call for old friendships to be valued and remembered.


	4. My Love is Like a Red Red Rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rose is as interfering as her mother.

**2009 Winter Solstice**

Wandering back from the pub it becomes evident that Harry is really, really drunk.  
“Look Draco, you try!” he dissolves into giggles, trying to catch snowflakes on his tongue.

Hermione, who has, naturally, been on the Butterbeer all evening, and looks ready to collapse, gives Draco a weary smile, “Good luck with that.”

“He’ll regret it in the morning,” Draco snorts, “Then it’ll be all, ‘ _Dra_ co, why didn’t you _stop_ me?’ the daft bugger.”

“Might have had too much to drink,” groans Ron.

“You don’t say,” remarks Hermione, dragging her husband out of the road for the third time in as many minutes.

Harry sticks his tongue in Draco’s face, and really, Draco could do without that. “Look, Draco, really look, it sparkles!”

Draco gives a long-suffering sigh, then moves to grab Weasley as he lurches off the pavement, “Oh, for pity’s sake. We’ll walk you home, I don’t want him falling on you in your condition.” This time around they’ve all been very protective and he knows it annoys her but he just can’t help himself.

“You are so _sweet_ ,” croons Harry, slipping an arm through his and veering back into the road. Draco gives up and goes with it.

Hermione navigates a safer route alone on the pavement. “Actually Draco, we’ve been wondering if you and Harry would like to be god-parents to this little one. I know it’s a bit Muggle, and really I don’t even know why my parents are insisting considering they’re atheists, but we’d like it.”

“Draco,” remarks Harry, solemnly, “will be a _wonderful_ godfather.”

“And _you_ will be a terrible example,” says Draco, pointedly. He’s touched and surprised.

“No really,” says Harry, undeterred, “Draco is amazing. And he’d look weird with dark hair. But it’s not that kind of godfather.”

Draco casts a perplexed glance at Hermione but she’s giggling and no help whatsoever.

“People don’t realise this about Draco, because he doesn’t want them to know,” continues Harry in a voice that’s probably meant to be discreet, “but he’s actually Very Nice”.  
Hermione snorts and Harry seems to take this as encouragement, “He is. He buys coffee every day for that homeless guy opposite us, you know the one who won’t go to the shelter, _and_ he runs the after-school under 11‘s Quidditch practice, which makes him a saint in my book, _and_ he makes me tea every morning, even the days when he’s not working, _and_...”

It’s obviously going to go on _ad nauseum_ , but Hermione breaks in, “I think we get the picture Harry.” Thankfully she avoids looking at Draco.

“You couldn’t ask for a better flatmate, or friend, or godfather,” says Harry, sounding a lot less pissed than before, and the look in his eyes is so unmistakably fond that Draco flushes and busies himself with extracting the house keys from Ron’s pocket.

**2010 First Day of Advent**

“Finally gone?” murmurs Draco.

Harry nods from the doorway, face shadowed in the gloom, “Yes, still calling instructions as she stepped into the floo, ‘remember to burp her Harry’, and ‘floo me immediately if she seems hot, or cranky, or vomits’. I told her you’d check her temp on an hourly basis and she seemed satisfied.”

Rose wriggles and her little forehead creases up. Draco turns from the light, nestling her into his neck, and resumes the old Elf lullaby he remembers from his childhood. Rose relaxes in his arms and Harry rests his chin on his shoulder to gaze at the sleeping baby.

“You’re so good at this. Sure you don’t have lots of little blond Malfoys scattered round Europe?”

“Not likely,” says Draco burying his nose into her sweet smelling tuft of hair.

“No, I suppose not,” sighs Harry. “I do wish,” he stops.

“I know,” he whispers, heart breaking just a little bit as Harry’s arm curls round his back.

Later relaxing in front of the log fire, with a gently snuffling Rose on his shoulder and a snoring Harry pressed against his thigh, Draco reflects that he has almost everything he ever wanted, and maybe it’s enough.

**2011 Second Day of Advent**

Harry’s gone to the Weasleys, and Draco is wallowing in preparation for dinner with his mother, when an owl, nondescript except for unusually bushy ear tufts, alights on the edge of the bath. It holds out a card.

_“He won’t break your patience, or control or your spirit; but he may break your health. You look like a person pushed to the last verge of endurance.”_

It is, of course, from Hermione, though she has not signed it. Only Granger would send a postcard complete with full citation details. The only thing to do now is await events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The observant will maybe be wondering about Hermione's earlier pregnancy, which Harry accidentally announced when he first met Draco in the cheese shop. In Harry's defence young single men often aren't aware of the '3 month rule', and he was very surprised to see Draco. In my head Hermione unfortunately lost that baby (a baby which had been a (welcome) surprise) early on, but the resultant strengthening of her relationship with Ron meant that Harry felt it was time to move out of their shared flat and get his own place.
> 
> My apologies to those who have been updated about false updates today - I'm new to this whole thing and haven't quite got the hang of tagging yet. I'll stop messing with it now. Hopefully.


End file.
